Five Lives Arya Lead With Gendry And One She Didn't
by Minya-Mari
Summary: Five lives Arya Stark had with Gendry Waters, and the one time she didn't. Or, (This is how she meets a man with a mop of black hair and eyes the colour of the seas who is quiet and strong and tall where she is loud and brash and small.)


_Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor any of the characters therein. I'm just playing with them for a little while._

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><p><em><strong>Title: <strong>_Five Lives Arya Lead With Gendry, And The One She Didn't

_**Summary:**_ Or, this is how she meets a man with a mop of black hair and eyes the colour of the seas who is quiet and strong and tall where she is loud and brash and small.

_**Genre:**_ _drama/romance/ family_

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><p><em><span>1.<span>_

Artos meets the girl at the Peach, a black haired, blue eyed thing she is. A smith for Lady Smallwood now, and she makes the metal sing as sweetly as his sister Robyn does her poems. Artos sits by the forge, swinging his skinny legs to and fro as he watches the girl.

Artos likes the way she doesn't care for Lady-like things, how she likes making swords and such for the Brotherhood, likes the way the sweat slicks her hair to the back of her neck.

Artos shakes his head and blushes furiously when Glenda asks why he stares so much. "Nothing, stupid," he snaps, not harshly, never harshly, and Glen laughs at him.

She laughs even harder when Lady Smallwood has Artos bathed and brushed back into neat-looking clothes; not the shabby, dirty things he'd been getting around in for the past three months, all torn and stained. So hard, even, that the wine she'd been drinking comes out her nose.

No, these stupid breeches and stupid vest are covered in the outlines of acorns and Artos scowls so hard that Glenda remarks that if he continues as such, his face will stay that way.

Artos growls just like the wolf he claims to be, and Glenda throws her head back to laugh once more.

"I look like an oaktree with all these stupid acorns," Artos snaps, and Glenda pauses, smiles prettily at him.

"Nice though," she tells him, blue eyes sincere in her round face. "A nice oak tree."

Artos blushes once again.

Osric is King, and Art is only a second son; he could marry whom ever he wanted. And if Artos ever wanted to marry anyone, he is sure that it would be Glenda Waters.

_2._

Arya doesn't like Kingslanding, and likes the King who resides there even less.

King Rhaegar, as quiet and melancholic as he is, is mad. Arya is _certain_ of it.

The fact that he named all three of his children after the three conquerors of old is proof enough. That he does, in fact, think his firstborn son to be the Prince that Was Promised or something, only cements it in her mind. Sansa and she are here as handmaidens to the princesses Rhaenys and Visenya, and Brandon is to squire for Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard.

Arya remembers all the times Brandon would tell her his dreams of being one of the Whitecloaks, and they were often told while climbing Winterfell's old towers or when she would tell him of wanting adventures beyond the Wall as they play-fought in the Godswood.

Kingslanding has stunted her in a way that she had not expected. Nymeria was caged most days, and with her all of Arya's freedom. Her direwolf was her other half, and even Sansa felt out of place without Lady by her side, Arya could tell; her sister would often fidget and glance longingly out the windows, towards the kennels.

Arya begins to sneak out from her chambers early in the morn to investigate Fleabottom, being restricted to the Red Keep and nothing more for the entirety of her stay in Kingslanding has made her curious. And her mother once said that a curious Arya always boded trouble.

(This is how she meets a man with a mop of black hair and eyes the colour of the seas that is quiet and strong and tall where she is loud and brash and small.)

And after nearly three months of her coming and going from the Red Keep to Fleabottom, news of Arya's engagement to King Rhaegar's second son is announced. Arya rages to her brother in his chambers, stalking to and fro, snarling much like the sigil of their House. He doesn't tell her to calm, as most men would, for this is Bran, the closest of all her siblings, and he understands her hurt.

How can she explore the world if she is to be married and produce children for some Prince she's only just met? She _won't_ and no mad king can command otherwise.

It is at this that Brandon pales, reaches for her and tells her to never say such things.

(The unspoken, _don't be like Aunt Lyanna, don't start another war_ is still there between them the next they speak.)

Prince Aemmon is quiet and kind, and Arya almost feels bad for rejecting the match so vehemently; he doesn't want this anymore than she, but at least he has the good grace to grin and bare it. He wants another, can see it in the quick, secretive glances he throws his aunt Daenerys.

After a few more months, Arya manages to talk the blacksmith into running across the Narrow Sea with her; seals the pact with a kiss that sends warmth all the way to her toes.

(There is no war, not in this life. Just a pleasant existence in a country not her own and adventures filled with excitement; her hand intertwined with that of a black-haired smith.)

_3._

Winterfell is warm during the summer compared to the one short winter Arya's ever seen, but Gendry still shivers and complains like a pup when the rain turns to sleet, and she laughs at his expense every time. Him being fostered out here under her father's care at the age of eleven would have made his skin used to the cold winds by now, four years later, one would think.

But no; the boy whines until Arya rolls her eyes and throws a punch for his shoulder. Gendry has something else to whine about now, doesn't he?

_4._

Arya thinks that perhaps he's forgotten her, the first time she sees him in eight years. She would have forgotten her. _Has_ forgotten herself.

But he hasn't; he stands stock still, as if afraid that she'll run at the slightest movement, and Arya is not certain that his fears are false. His hair is longer and curls about his throat, but his eyes are the same, piercing blue; stubborn yet kind.

He seems shorter than when they were children, but that could just be her growth into a woman; he is still broad and big-boned as he was then-his jawline still as sharp.

The whisper of her name across his lips has her flicking her grey eyes left and right, searching desperately for an escape where there is none. They meet his with a tired resignation that is so sharply contrasted by the hope that flickers in him, in his stance and in his face.

And Arya wonders if _she_ could have ever forgotten _him._

_5. _

Arya is fairly certain that she is supposed to have met this man by now. The name, scrawled across her wrist is faded and barely-there, but she can still see it. _Gendry Waters_.

Perhaps she was born too late? Or maybe he was?

Mayhaps it is not even a man, a part of her whispers. She considers the thought, and then throws it away.

Winterfell is cold now, without the sound of bustling activity; no shouts and laughter from children, common and highborn alike.

Arya wishes things would go back to the way they were before; with Mother and Father and Robb still breathing, but she knows it cannot. Winterfell was a smoking ruin when she had finally returned, but at least she still has Sansa and Rickon.

_Jon Snow_ is on her wrist too, still bright and gleaming with life, despite the rumours of his murder. Arya did not have the strength to make the journey North, to the Wall, and discover the truth of it for herself; she had sent ten of her sister's Northmen to accompany Aegon Targaryen's own. Something about a prince and a prophesy. Arya frowns against the pain in her chest; a Winter Fever, Sansa had whispered to her mere nights ago, before it had truly set in.

Arya closes her eyes, little wild Rickon crouched in the chair beside her, and slips into oblivion.

It is dark when Arya manages to open her eyes again, and she can still hear Rickon breathing at her side, even and slow with sleep. His red hair is long and tangled; it doesn't fit with the clothes he now wears-a Lord's clothes, not a wildling's.

As if sensing her eyes upon him, Rickon jerks awake, Tully eyes meeting her own in the dimness of the morning.

_"Sister,"_ says he in the First Tongue, lifting himself from the chair to reach for her shoulder. He holds it firmly as he speaks, and Arya has to watch his mouth to better understand the words coming from him. "_Sansa has gone to greet our guests, she wanted me with her but you could not be left alone the way you were._"

Arya blinks away sleepiness and lifts herself gingerly from the cot; Rickon leans further to help her up, and she nods her thanks. "_Help me there_?" she gives back in the same tongue, and he nods.

He is strong, her baby brother, allowing her to lean all of her weight against him as they walk to the hall; he would not have survived this long if he wasn't. Rickon is almost her height now, and the cuff of his shirt rides up enough that Arya can see the name of one of his soulmates.

_Shireen Baratheon_ is vibrant against the paleness of his skin, and Arya glances away. She wonders if Rickon has already met her, Lord Stannis's daughter. There were rumours of him being held captive by the false King, but then, there were also rumours of Arya herself being wed to the Bastard of Bolton.

The hall is crowded, and Arya starts; it hasn't been this full since before Arya left with Sansa and Father. Sansa, Arya can see, is craning her neck to get a look at the both of them, and when she does, she motions them forward, towards the platform she is seated on.

Sansa, despite being only clothed in a plain gown-one fit for a servant-appears every inch a Queen. Arya leans forward to grip her sister's hand, Rickon's hand is still on her back, and Sansa pulls her up with a sure grip.

Sansa is still holding her close when she says, "You do not look well."

Arya snorts, and her head spins. "I'm _fine."_ Rickon steps up beside them, and moves his hand until it rests on Arya's elbow; a silent reassurance.

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek, but says nothing more on the subject. "Come," she says, gesturing towards the seat to the right of the throne. "Sit down, please."

It is the please that has Arya frowning at her sister, but doing as she asks. The wood is smooth, the back carved with intricate patterns that dig into her spine, but Arya grits her teeth and bears it. Sansa sits in the throne of Winter Kings, with Rickon to her left and Arya to her right, and says, "Be welcome within my halls and at my table, King Aegon, Lord Snow. You'll find no enemies here."

Arya jerks her gaze up from her lap, eyes searching the crowd for ones as grey as her own and finds them.

"Jon," she breathes, standing shakily and moving forward, despite Sansa's protests. He is beaming at her when she manages to get down, and Arya flings herself at him. Jon holds her close, whispers "Little sister" to her softly, and oh, how she's missed him. When she pulls back, she realises that they see almost eye-to-eye now; that she has grown tall as Sansa.

His beard makes him look so much like Father that her throat tightens, but she has yet to let go of his hand; he clutches tightly to her and she does he. They are soulmates, of the same ilk, and it has been years since they've seen the other.

This King Aegon watches with a small smile, bows to her. "Lady Arya," he says and Arya frowns at the silver-haired man.

"M'not a Lady."

King Aegon straightens and frowns back, but this time at Jon. "Is she always this way, brother?"

Arya freezes, blinks. "W-what?"

Jon tightens his grip on her fingers, as if afraid she'll run. "Arya-"

"No, what does he mean, Jon?"

Jon sighs, steps closer to her, and Arya feels complete. "Lord Eddard Stark was not my true father," he says, and Arya nods for him to continue. "The Targaryen Prince, Rhaegar was."

Arya fiddles with the cuff of his black cloak, and he asks, "Arya? Did you hear me?"

She nods, lets go of him and steps back. He is reluctant in prying his fingers from hers, but propriety makes him, and Arya backs away to the platform, seats herself beside her sister once more.

_Not my brother?_ Arya thinks, frowning down at her hands as Sansa speaks to the both of them.

Arya does not speak to him for days, only wonders about Winterfell's halls, and listens to the loud, bawdy voices of men, and the laughs of women fill it's desolate walls once more. It's more alive that it had been in almost a decade, something that both hurts her heart and fills it with joy.

It is during this time that she meets him. It is something of a reunion and a first-meeting when her eyes catch his as she stalks past the armoury with a killer's grace. She does not remember him at first sight, but he does.

Her months between escaping Kingslanding and reaching Braavos are still blurred, but his face is familiar in a way she can't name.

But still… the man with too-blue eyes offers her a sad, half-smile and calls her _m'lady_. Her response is immediate; pulled from her chest with a familiar feel to the words.

"Stupid bull."

_**And One.**_

There is a world, one where the honourable Eddard Stark rejected King Robert's offer of Hand, and stayed on his lands. In this world, Arya Stark is still wilful and is still gifted the rapier Needle by a favourite brother, there is still a war. But Arya Stark does not venture any further south than The Neck and so does not stumble across and befriend a black-haired, base-born son of a King.

Instead, she becomes a spear-wife to Mance Rayder and befriends giants and Children of the Forest in turns, and is known to history as the Wildling She-Wolf.


End file.
